I Shall Never Take Her Back
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: AU My Fair Lady with a Pygmalion twist. What if Henry Higgins' dreadful prophecy had come true? Would he really slam the door and let her freeze?
1. Chapter 1

_As in my other fic, this Henry Higgins is based on the one I recently saw in the stage musical: younger, and somewhat softer. Please let me know what you think, and enjoy!!_

_VVVVVVVVVV_

THAT INEVITABLE NIGHT

"May I remind you that it is a quarter till nine, sir."

"Please don't harangue me about that any further, Mrs. Pearce," Henry Higgins sighed as he poured himself some port. "Can I get you a glass as well, old chap?"

"No thank you--my coffee is quite satisfactory," Pickering assured him, sitting back in the armchair that had been his favorite during his long stay with the professor many months ago.

"Still not warm enough, even by the fire?" Higgins jabbed lightly. Pickering shivered.

"I'm afraid not. I must be far too used to the Indian climate to come back here and still be comfortable."

"Well, it _is_ kicking up a fair blizzard outside," Higgins admitted, coming around and seating himself in his own armchair across from his friend. The couch between them remained vacant.

"But sir, you have received ten invitations to Christmas Eve parties," Mrs. Pearce went on, stepping farther into the parlour. "And you do not plan on attending a single one?"

"That is correct, Mrs. Pearce. Not a single one," Higgins answered crisply. "I have my two good friends, Colonel Pickering and a glass of port, and am quite content to spend this evening by the fire."

"That is what you say every evening, sir," Mrs. Pearce countered. "The last time you were out in society was the Embassy Ball!"

"That is quite enough, thank you," Higgins snapped, his blue eyes flashing at her.

Mrs. Pearce wilted.

"Very well, sir," she said quietly, and turned and left the room. Higgins ran a hand through his dark hair, causing a single strand to fall down across his forehead.

"That woman will be the death of me," he muttered. "Wants me to go outside in a blasted snowstorm and catch pnemonia just to mix with bores and idiots whose names I can't remember."

Pickering chuckled.

"And you must tell her not to exaggerate. I'm certain you've been out since the Embassy

Ball!"

Higgins did not look at him--just cradled his glass in front of him and stared at the brown liquid. Pickering's brow furrowed.

"Surely not," he said gravely. "No, surely...surely you..."

Higgins brow furrowed and his jaw tightened. Pickering leaned forward.

"The last time I visited, you were jumping to go everywhere: Ascot, Brighton, the shops--"

"There was a reason, then," Higgins answered shortly, swilling his port. Pickering fell into silence, sitting back in his chair again.

"Well, anyway, the tree looks lovely," he commented. Higgins glanced over his shoulder at the medium-sized Christmas tree lit with softly glowing candles, and frosted with bulbs and candy canes.

"Yes, the maids and Mrs. Pearce made a big fuss over it."

"You didn't help?"

Higgins waved it off.

"I couldn't care less about that bedraggled spruce. I hate Christmas trees--they make a mess on my floor."

"Then why do you have it here?" Pickering wondered.

"It was ordered a year in advance, Colonel," Mrs. Pearce inserted, entering with a sure step and a coffee pot to refill Pickering's cup.

"What?" Pickering was confused. "I don't rememeber--"

"Miss Doolittle arranged it," Mrs. Pearce replied. "She said she had never--"

"_Mrs. Pearce!_" Higgins sounded downright dangerous this time, and Mrs. Pearce fled,trying not to spill the coffee, shutting the door behind her. Higgins sat back heavily in his chair and set his glass down on the side table with more force than was necessary. Pickering said nothing, allowing the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the mantle clock to fill the silence. Finally, he sighed.

"It's a strange feeling--spending Christmas by oneself."

"What am I, boiled liver?" Higgins objected.

"You know what I mean, Higgins. When you get to be an old man, your parents are gone, and you have no family otherwise--no wife, no children--and no hope of gaining them."

"Yes, I'm familiar with that state of things," the other man muttered.

"Nonsense, Higgins," Pickering protested. "I was speaking of myself. You still have time. You're not yet forty."

Higgins snorted.

"Close enough to it to make me cringe, and far enough away from any prospects that I might as well be eighty."

"Not that you mind, of course," Pickering said lightly. "Though we're both bachelors, we're cut out of different cloth, you and I. There are times I feel quite sorry that I never chose a wife. You have always seemed to be utterly proud to have escaped such a fate."

"And so I am," Higgins declared, though he felt a slight pain in the back of his throat as he spoke. "Though I'm sure you know enjoy your company, old chap, I wouldn't feel the least put out if I were completely alone this evening."

"Well, I am about to arrange that for you, because I'm getting devilishly sleepy," Pickering yawned. He leaned forward, groaning slightly, and eased himself to his feet. "I assume we will be going to church in the morning?"

Higgins halfway glanced up at him.

"Only if you absolutely insist," he said darkly.

"I insist," Pickering decided. "We cannot have you holed up here like some hermit--not on Christmas. People will begin calling you an Ebenezer Scrooge!" Pickering laughed, lightening the jibe, and Higgins managed to chuckle, but the pain in his throat traveled down to land somewhere behind his sternum.

"Goodnight, Higgins," Pickering said as he left. "And Merry Christmas!"

Higgins did not answer. He did not even watch his friend go. He only listened as his footsteps trailed down the hallway and slowly up the flight of stairs. Then the house fell silent.

Higgins glanced up at the clock as it droned its idle ticking. He sighed again, though his chest felt tight. He had lied. In the old days, yes, he would have been perfectly content sitting alone of a Christmas Eve by the fire with a glass of port. But that was back when the house had not felt always empty. Back when he had not felt imprisoned by his own walls, yet afraid--yes, afraid--to venture out of them, all in fear of seeing _her_. _Her, _on the arm of a sniveling, snub-nosed stuffed-shirt, her diamond wedding ring flashing in the light of the chandeliers, greeting everyone with a perfectly prim but warm "How do you do?", her long-lashed, sparkling brown eyes glancing up at her escort adoringly...

Higgins leaned forward, rubbing his eyes with both hands, then simply sitting there in that weary position. He felt nothing. Not even sadness or righteous anger anymore. He was hollow, and nothing that had given him pleasure or satisfaction before brought him those things now.

He snatched at a book he had abandoned on the table next to him, and almost groaned when he saw the title: _Shakespeare's Sonnets_. He, Henry Higgins, Professor and worshiper of the English language, almost _groaned _at the sight of _Shakespeare_.

Biting his lip, he forced himself to open the book. He was going to _make _himself enjoy a poem. Just one poem. For old time's sake.

But then his brow tightened and he swallowed hard as he began muttering the words before his eyes.

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds or bends with the remover to remove. Oh, no! It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken."

He threw the book. It clattered to the floor and slid, half hiding under a shelf. He hated poetry. It was nothing but sentimental hogwash that clouded reason and confused logic.

He stood up and paced away from the fallen book, running both hands through his hair, then jerked backward as he barreled into the Christmas tree. He knocked a bulb off and it shattered on the floor. He swore.

"This blasted, bloody mess all over my--" He stopped. He straightened. He heard something at the door. His brow creased. Had someone been knocking?

There it came again, very faint. But it was most definitely three knocks on his door. He took a breath, and prepared to bellow at Mrs. Pearce, then caught sight of the clock. It was nearly ten. She was certainly upstairs now, dressed for bed. Swearing again, Higgins stepped over the shards of glass and stomped toward the door.

Grabbing hold of the door handle, he flung the door open.

"What the devil do you mean by pounding on my door at this time of--" He stopped. No one stood on the stoop. The night outside was deeply dark, the snow swirling through the halos of the street lights. Frigid wind cut through his smoking jacket, and he frowned. Who had--

He glanced down. He bit his tongue as his heart lurched.

A woman lay there on the stoop, her hand stretched out in front of her near his foot, her legs draped out so they hung over the top step. She wore a ragged skirt and thin blouse, with a threadbare scarf wrapped around her neck. Her young face was deathly pale, her eyes were closed, and her dark brown hair fluttered loosely around her cheeks and shoulders. Snow was drifting over her skirt, and ice coated her long eyelashes and parched lips. Higgins swallowed, feeling as if he had nails lodged in his throat.

Eliza.

He stepped back, his eyes fixed on her, and his hand tightened on the doorknob.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_I realized only after I started this and posted it, that there is one written on this same theme by RandomScribbler!! However, I have not read the other one (yet) and so any ideas that might be similar are purely coincidental, and I'm just having fun! So I hope I haven't stepped on any toes. This is just my own take on things--another version, if you will. Thanks!_

VVVVVVVVV

I SHALL NEVER TAKE HER BACK

PART II

"Good lord," Higgins whispered breathlessly, the wind whistling around him. Eliza, prone, did not move. His hand gripped the doorknob even tighter as his vengeful rant of months ago chattered in his ear.

"_How poignant it will be on that inevitable night when she hammers on my door in tears and rags! Miserable and lonely, repentant and contrite. Will I let her in or hurl her to the wolves? Give her kindness, or the treatment she deserves? Will I take her back, or throw the baggage out?"_

Higgins shivered as he stared down at her motionless form.

"_I shall _never_ take her back, if she were crawling on her knees! Let her promise to atone--let her shiver, let her moan! I'll slam the door and let the hell-cat_ freeze_!"_

Higgins took a shaking breath. What was she doing here? Why was she unconscious? Why was she wearing these clothes? Yes, he had shouted and raved long ago, concocting a delightful situation for his wounded pride out of his wildly literary imagination--but he had never even considered that such a thing could actually happen. Suddenly, he felt nauseated that he had ever gotten pleasure out of that idea--sick that he had bound himself to such a promise.

He slowly knelt down and stared at her still face. Then terror flashed through his mind. Was she breathing?

"Eliza?" he gasped, reaching out and touching her throat. Her skin felt like ice. He reacted. He lunged out onto the stoop, plunging his slippered feet down into the snow, and slid his arms around her. The ice beneath her instantly numbed his hands and arms, but he lifted her up. She felt like nothing in his arms--a pile of cloth and dust. Kicking the door more fully open, he hurried back inside, tracking snow all through the hall behind him.

"Mrs. Pearce!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Pickering! Come downstairs at once!"

He felt Eliza's whole body shudder. He glanced down at her face in worry, but her eyelids didn't even flutter. He hustled her into the parlour and laid her down as gently as he knew how on the divan, propping her head up with a pillow.

"Good lord Eliza, what are you doing here?" he hissed as he worked, his heart pounding in his ears. Several emotions collided within him so that he could only conduct himself in an angry manner. He heard several feet thundering down the stairs. He didn't look up--he realized that her left arm was pinned behind her against the couch. He reached down and lifted her arm to adjust it--then stared at her hand. She wore no wedding ring. His fingers closed around her thin, icy ones.

"Higgins, what on earth...oh..." Pickering, tying the sash of his robe, slowed to a halt as he stared at the figure on the couch. "It's--"

"Miss Doolittle!" Mrs. Pearce finished, her voice filling with alarm. The housekeeper rushed around the couch and knelt beside the young woman, pressing her hands to her pallid face and throat.

"She's nearly frozen to death!"

Henry's throat closed. Mrs. Pearce looked up at Pickering.

"We have to hurry and get blankets and a hot water bottle! We must warm her up immediately or she will die."

Higgins stood a moment, his eyes fixed on Eliza's face as Mrs. Pearce's words sunk in.

"By Jove," Pickering cried, turning and hurrying toward a linen closet. "I'll get the blankets out of here, and then pull some off her old bed!"

"Professor, take her shoes off," Mrs. Pearce hurriedly instructed as she got up and swished past him. "See if her toes are frostbitten!"

Both of them bustled out of the room, and Mrs. Pearce began barking orders to the servants who had just now roused themselves.

Higgins stood a moment, stiff, then lowered himself to his knees. Her boots were well-worn leather, but he could barely tell that because they were coated with ice and snow. He set to work, prying at her frozen shoelaces, his fingers going numb. Finally, he loosed them enough on her right foot to yank at the tongue.

"Ah!" Eliza let out a sudden yelp and her head jerked up, her eyes wide. Her hands lashed out and gripped the cushions of the couch in a talon-like grip. Higgins' heart spasmed.

"Calm down you silly girl," he snapped. She glanced at him wildly, and he was not certain she recognized him.

"It 'urts," she gasped, her brow twisting pleadingly.

"Well I have to take it off or your feet will freeze and the doctor will have to cut them

off," he answered back. She fell back onto the pillow, her jaw tightening, her eyes flitting over the darkened ceiling. The pain had excited her breathing. Biting down, Higgins worked his fingers around the edges of her shoe, working it loose of her stocking. When that was done, he grabbed the heel and started to pull the boot off.

Eliza issued a strangled grunt, her hands clenching around the cushions again. He slowed down, but that did not seem to matter. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears trickled down the sides of her face. Henry stopped.

"We must get these off," he insisted. She let out a whimper.

"Don't give me any of your simpering," Henry snapped, feeling as if someone was tearing his chest apart. "Buck up and keep yourself together. It's coming off this time, and I'm not stopping."

Though she did not answer, she took a breath and held it. Henry took that as consent, and wrenched the shoe off. She started to cry openly, now, sobs stifled in her chest. Her watery eyes caught sight of him glaring at her. She weakly grabbed the pillow, turned her head and buried her face in it.

"We're going after the other one, now," Higgins said, bracing himself, though he felt lightheaded and clammy. The next shoe went the way of the first, though the effort left Eliza's pillow completely damp with tears. He reached for her frosty stocking, which only reached to the middle of her calf. A feeble reminder of propriety poked his conscience before he knocked it away. Now was not the time for such foolishness. His cold fingers worked the first stocking off, and then the other. Her pale, delicate feet felt as if they were made of ice. Without thinking, Higgins grabbed her right foot in both of his hands, willing their warmth into her skin. She just watched him through cloudy eyes, her hand limp beside her face, tears slowly trailing down her cheeks. She blinked slowly at him, but obviously could not find the strength to speak. He swallowed hard.

"You are ruining my couch," he said flatly.

The edge of her mouth barely twitched, and one eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly. Then her eyes drifted closed. His hands tightened on her foot.

"Eliza?"

"Here!" Mrs. Pearce entered, carrying a hot water bottle wrapped in a towel. She raced around the couch and laid the bottle against Eliza's chest. She glanced at Higgins. "Very good, Professor. Don't rub her skin--just keep warming her feet up like that. I'll warm her hands. Colonel! Where are those blankets?"

"Here!" he said also, trotting in carrying two quilts and a comforter.

"Give me the quilts," Mrs. Pearce held out her arms. Pickering, breathless, handed them to her, and she flung them over Eliza, sweeping one edge over Higgins' head and mussing his hair, but he hardly noticed. He didn't take his hands away from Eliza. Mrs. Pearce tucked Eliza in tightly, still issuing instructions.

"Colonel, build up that fire. It needs to be roaring!"

Pickering trotted around and did just that, until the flames soared and crackled. Henry felt as if he would soon start to sweat. Eliza was shivering. Higgins moved to her other foot, shocked at how cold it was to the touch.

"Colonel, can you go make another hot bottle?" Mrs. Pearce asked.

"I...er..." Pickering stammered. Mrs. Pearce sighed.

"Never mind, I will get it. Professor, you come up here and warm her hands. Colonel, come and warm her feet."

Higgins could think of no way to object, and so he scooted down, sitting on the floor near Eliza's head, while Pickering managed to ease his old bones down onto the floor. Hesitating just a moment, Higgins reached out and took up Eliza's left hand. It felt so delicate between his palms--like an icicle.

"Where was she?" Pickering grunted, taking hold of her foot.

"Lying on the bloody stoop," Higgins muttered, his eyes wandering over her fevered features.

"What? Wearing _rags?_" Pickering exclaimed. Higgins shrugged, feeling poisonous guilt trickle down through his gut.

"I don't understand it--something must have happened," Pickering mumbled.

"Of _course _something happened, Pickering!" Henry lashed out. "She wouldn't be lying out there in the snow for the fun of it!"

"But didn't she marry that Fredrick Eynsford-Hill?" Pickering wondered. "He is so well-to-do, and his mother is--"

Higgins held up Eliza's left hand. Pickering stopped.

"Well...I'm dashed," he murmured, stricken. "I just don't understand it."

"We'll just have to wait until she wakes up--and then I will have _plenty _of questions for her, let me assure you," Higgins squeezed her hand, impatient for it to warm.

"Yes," Pickering sighed worriedly. "_If _she wakes up."

Higgins shot him a disgusted glance, fighting to hide from his friend the fear he should not be feeling.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

WHAT A HEARTLESS, WICKED, BRAINLESS THING TO DO

Slowly, Eliza felt warmth work its way through her veins, down through her legs and arms and over her burning cheeks. She heard muddled scolding and commands to be quiet. She heard her name spoken fearfully. She felt hands pull at her feet, sending prickling, needle-like pain jabbing up through her whole body. She felt a heavy bundle of warmth press against her chest. She felt strong, soft fingers clasp tightly around hers. When she finally realized she was going to live, she allowed herself to sink down into the dark depths, knowing that they would only be of sleep and not of death.

Her eyes opened. At first, she could see nothing except dim light and shadows. Gradually, her tired vision focused. And with a slow intake of air, she realized that she recognized this place. Her bleary gaze drifted over the familiar fireplace, the embers sitting within its reaches, the books on the bookshelves, the statuettes and candles and lamps and candy dishes. She turned her head just a little.

A man's head leaned against the armrest of the sofa, right next to her pillow. He was sitting, leaning back against the sofa, his face slightly turned toward her. He had untidy, dark brown hair, and the eyes beneath the heavy, critical eyebrows were closed. Eliza studied his sharp, angular features and defined jaw and mouth, which were lined by a trimmed beard and mustache. She felt her lips part in disbelief and shock. It was Professor Higgins. She had made it to his doorstep.

And he had brought her in.

Her eyes filling with tears, Eliza almost touched him with her fingertips. Then, a terror of his waking overcame her, and she tucked her hand back against her chest. When he woke, he would degrade her, lecture her, chastise her and perhaps even change his mind and throw her out into the snow again. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the pillow. She would remain silent as long as she could, pretending to sleep, reminding herself to be grateful that he hadn't just left her out there to freeze.

VVVVVVVV

Henry Higgins woke at seven thirty-five in the morning. He knew this because when he opened his heavy eyelids, he was facing the clock. Stiffness traveled all the way down his back as he sat forward, groaning. He turned his sore neck, then stopped.

Eliza lay on the couch behind him, breathing deeply, some semblance of colour having returned to her cheeks. Then he swallowed as he looked closer. It wasn't colour--her skin had been wind-burned. Wincing and rolling his shoulders, he turned to see Pickering asleep in the armchair, snoring. Higgins stretched his legs out in front of him. He guessed Mrs. Pearce had gone to bed.

He leaned forward, feeling all of his bones, and crawled to his feet. He rubbed his face as he gazed blearily down at her. It was Christmas Day. And he had a lovely present of a bedraggled, beggarly, _familiar_ flower-girl lying on his couch. He rolled his eyes and headed out of the parlour. Pickering had insisted they go to church--so by George, they were going to church, come hell or high water. He was _not _staying here in this house with that baggage.

He dragged himself up the stairs, using the railing as a man climbing a mountain would use a rope, and stumbled into his room, slamming the door behind him without a care as to whom it would disturb. He stepped in and leaned forward heavily against a small table in front of his mirror, hanging his head.

Eliza Doolittle was downstairs.

"What of it?" he muttered hoarsely. He swiped at his eyes again, but did not raise his head. His lip curled. He remembered that day--the day she had so flippantly told him off--the day she had sworn she could do "bloody well" without him, and that she would never see him again. The day she had proved to him that all the work he had done for her, all the effort and strain and genius and clout he had put behind her project meant nothing to her.

And even worse, that _he _had meant nothing to her.

Higgins poured water into a basin and splashed it on his face, the water dripping down onto his collar, which hung askew. He had gone home immediately after that argument, ranting like a lunatic, swearing and cursing, and murmuring in a despair he had never felt. He had entered his house, and for the first time since he bought it, it felt like someone else's home--like he was intruding. He had moved silently from room to room, occasionally catching her scent on the air when he entered the parlour or the recording area. He had gone to the grammaphone, and, after staring at it for a long time, found one of her earliest recordings, hesitantly put it in and played it. He had then sunk down into the couch where she had sat so often. Carefully, attentively, he listened to the familiar dialect that he had once so abhorred and fought against, but now sounded inadequate--a cheap substitute for the clear, living tones of the woman who had uttered them. What he would have given to hear that honest, offensive Lisson Grove dialect again.

He had sat there in the quiet, listening, covering his eyes with his hand, until the recording ended, filling the air with soft, white noise. He had swallowed and swiped at his eyes, stunned to find tears come away on his hand. He got up, and started the recording again, sitting back down where he was. After a while, he had gradually come to realize what he was doing: he was waiting for her. He was waiting for her to enter, shut off the recording and say something in that soft, slightly-ironic tone of hers.

But she never came. And the hollowness inside his chest had grown.

After that, he had not eaten for several days. Neither Pickering nor Mrs. Pearce had any real inkling as to the source of his melancholy and poor humor, because he consistently and lightly lied, begging off and telling them he was not hungry, or that he wished to be left alone to read. But though he would stare for hours at lines of poetry he used to treasure, the words had blurred together, and he grew to hate it--just as the hollowness, despair and longing within him also grew to anger.

The anger would keep him up at night, tossing and turning, because he could not understand himself. It was rage, yes, but underneath it remained a deep, throbbing pain that he valiantly fought to tamp down and ignore rather than decipher. He had known he was overreacting, giving too much credit to a penniless guttersnipe, too much thought to a fickle flower girl, but these arguments didn't sustain him for more than an hour or two each night. Then the throbbing would become so insistent that he would have to get up, throw on his robe, trail downstairs and softly play her recording again while laying himself down on the couch. It was only then that he could finally get to sleep. Many a morning, Pickering or Mrs. Pearce would find him there, his arms crossed over his chest, the grammaphone still on, hissing quietly. In a month's time, the recording had begun to sound ragged, but Higgins hardly noticed.

It was a day in mid July that Henry heard she had married Freddy Eynsford Hill. Incidentally, that had been the same day Pickering had left for India again. And the day that Eliza's recording had finally broke.

He had sat there in the parlour, his elbows on his knees, staring at the wall as the recording merely made a soft _tick tick tick _noise, instead of uttering the voice he had so unwillingly come to depend on. And that day, he had felt as if he had lost her all over again.

He had instantly filled with shame, humiliation, disgust at himself, and bitterness. In that moment, he despised his very being for how weak he had become, how dependant, how childish. There was no way on earth that she was worth this. She had gone and married a brainless sod-head who had, according to the papers, bought her a diamond wedding ring, though he was waiting to inherit and had not a penny to his name yet. Eliza did not care for Henry Higgins. Not at all. She had made her choice. And she was not coming back.

Henry now glared at his wan countenance in the mirror, glowering straight into his own eyes, daring them to observe that he was stricken, or even that he needed to shave. He slapped water at the reflection, blurring it, and stomped to his closet to dress. He felt nothing. He did not care if she was down there. The pain, the hollowness, even the anger were gone. As soon as she could walk, he would turn her out. She had only come back because her husband had left her and she felt abandoned and alone, needing comfort. Well, he would not give it. Henry Higgins was not about to be the second for Freddy Eynsford-Hill.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_Please review, so I know whether or not to continue! Thank you!_

_VVVVVVVVVVVV_

SO GO BACK IN YOUR SHELL, I CAN DO BLOODY WELL

Eliza managed to sit up. That was quite a feat, considering that she had been trying all morning. However, that instant, Mrs. Pearce entered and scolded her.

"What are you doing sitting up? Lie back down this instant!"

"I...I felt I needed to move around a bit," Eliza mumbled, still trying to make her thoughts coherent. "I feel...grimy and uncomfortable..." She glanced up sheepishly at Mrs. Pearce. "Would it be too much...to ask for a bath?"

Mrs. Pearce's eyebrows went up.

"Of course not! I'll have them draw you up a bath immediately. Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering have gone to Christmas services, so it will be no trouble at all."

"Christmas...oh! It's Christmas..." she whispered, finally catching sight of the Christmas tree, which sparkled softly in the morning light. "The professor got a tree?"

"Only because you requested one last year," Mrs. Pearce said. Eliza frowned.

"I didn't think he would think about me much after I left."

Mrs. Pearce's expression saddened slightly.

"Oh, yes, my dear. He thought of you quite often." She turned and headed toward the door. "In fact, he listened to your voice on the grammophone so many times that it broke."

Eliza stared at her retreating back, then drifted over to the small grammophone. Her eyebrows came together.

"_You have my voice on your grammophone. When you feel lonely without me, you can turn it on. It's got no feelings to hurt."_

_"I can't turn your soul on."_

She shook herself. That did not matter. It didn't mean what she had once hoped it would mean. He had probably just spent hours dissecting her dialect, writing a book about how disgusting it sounded, and all the reasons why.

She collapsed back onto her pillow, waiting for Mrs. Pearce to call her for her bath. She felt indescribably weak, dirty and starving. But for the first time in months, she reluctantly had to admit that at least she felt safe.

_VVVVVVV_

Sitting in the breakfast room, after finishing a complete meal and two cups of tea and wearing one of her old, red dresses that she had left in her wardrobe, Eliza felt several degrees better. One of the maids had spent a long time washing and combing Eliza's hair until it was dry, then braiding it up around her head in an elegant crown. Eliza had almost forgotten what it felt like to be presentable. However, her legs still shook when she walked, and when Mrs. Pearce wrapped an arm around her waist and assisted her back to the couch, she remarked that Eliza felt dreadfully thin and bony.

Eliza just lay there on the couch, fingering her scarlet skirt, glancing absently around the comfortably familiar room, until she heard the front door open. The entry way instantly rang with two familiar voices. She smiled to hear Colonel Pickering remark about the excellence of the sermon, but the smile faded when Higgins pointed out the minister's wife's snobbery.

They stomped the snow off their boots, and apparently took their coats and hats off, because when they entered the parlour , they were without them. Eliza held her breath.

Pickering came around the sofa and leaned his smiling face over her.

"Merry Christmas, Miss Doolittle!" he crowed. "It's good to see you in the land of the living!"

Eliza couldn't help but beam back at him.

"Good morning, Colonel. How was church?"

"Splendid, splendid," the Colonel assured her, approaching the fire and poking it so the flames spurted up. "Wouldn't you say so, Higgins?"

"Tolerable," he answered. Eliza could tell that he had been trying to escape, but now that Pickering had drawn him into the conversation he couldn't just leave. So he ambled around the couch, his hands in his pockets, avoiding looking at her.

"I admit that I fell asleep during the sermon, however," he added blackly.

"What? Why? I found it riveting," Pickering pointed out. Higgins shrugged.

"Something about being up until four in the morning making sure a certain guttersnipe didn't die of the cold. I would have rather heard the sermon."

Pickering chuckled. He thought he was joking. But he was looking at the fire, not at Higgins' face. Eliza, however, saw clearly that Higgins was perfectly serious, and thus the comment bit like acid. Eliza turned her face from him. But he turned toward her.

"So what exactly were you doing on my doorstep, woman?" he demanded. "I hardly imagined you as the caroling type, but perhaps I was wrong."

Eliza didn't answer, feeling as if she had swallowed poison. She just stared at the back of the couch.

_Come now, _she berated herself. _You knew he would do this_.

Higgins took a step toward her.

"And I see that you've changed your wardrobe. It's strange, but I've always thought that a husband ought to lavish more attention on a woman than an old friend; don't you agree? It's lucky that that dress Pickering got you wasn't quite to your fancy when you left, or you'd still be wearing that fire-fodder I found you in."

"I say, Higgins--" Pickering tried, suddenly realizing how savage he was being. Higgins ignored him, taking another step toward her.

"Why would you come _here_, Eliza? What on earth would make you think you'd be welcomed _here _of a Christmas Eve?"

"I had nowhere else to go," she whispered, feeling tears prick her eyes.

"Oh, indeed?" He crossed his arms.

"Higgins!"

"And why is that?" he pressed relentlessly. "Did the rent come due and you had no funds? Did your precious flower shop wither and die under the luxury your husband demanded? Did your friends deny the fact that they'd ever known you when you went to them for help?" He bent domineeringly over her. "Did your husband throw you out--or did he perhaps leave you for another woman?"

_"Yes!"_ Eliza wailed, limply unfolding her arms in surrender. She sobbed, feeling weak and foolish, squeezing her eyes shut so she could not see him. Her breath hitched in her throat, for she was too weak for such passion, and she shivered all over.

"Higgins, that was absolutely uncalled for! How dare you berate the poor girl, after all she's been through?" Pickering gritted, sounding enraged, which was the first time she had ever witnessed such a thing, but she was bitterly glad for it. However, Higgins apparently had no glib answer for him. She heard him turn on his heel and storm out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

VVVVVVV

Higgins had stomped out into the snow before he realized what he was doing, breathing hard. The cold air felt good against his heated face. He rammed his hands in his pockets again, feeling the winter air nip at his nose and ears. The white shroud of snow before him nearly blinded him, and he squinted against it. The wind stung his eyes.

He'd had no idea. He had only thrown all those accusations at her because he wanted instant clarification. He had had no desire to beat around the bush--he had to know her situation. He had expected her to fight him, to defiantly insist that she had merely had an unlucky experience but of course had a home and employment to return to. He had no idea that his heavy verbal blows would strike a fissure, and that she would break right there in front of him--shatter to pieces and admit to him that her entire life had fallen apart and she had thrown her fate into his arms. Again.

Higgins leaned his head back and searched the cloudy heavens. He closed his eyes, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping him. After that, he wouldn't have to worry about what to do with her. She would leave again. After all, how could she ever forgive him?

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks for the reviews! I hope this continues to entertain you. ;) Please let me know! _

VVVVVVVVVV

SHOW ME

When her parlour door, framed by garlands, opened without a servant, Mrs. Higgins fully expected another addition to her Christmas party, and a warm greeting sprang to her lips. However, the greeting died when she was startled by the sight of her son striding in. Another set of words leaped into a mouth, but these also perished when she instantly noticed he wore no hat and no coat.

"Good afternoon, Mother," Higgins tried to say, though it came out a bit unsteadily, and when he bent to kiss her, his lips were cold against her cheek. She snatched at him, taking him by the shoulders. Snow covered his jacket.

"Henry!" she cried, causing all of her guests--who were gathered around the magnificent tree, drinking coffee--to look up in alarm. She hardly noticed. Her son's handsome face was pale, he was dark under his eyes, and he was breathing hard.

"Is something wrong?" she demanded, keeping her hands on him. He shrugged her off.

"Why must something be wrong?" he asked tartly. "Can't a son come to wish his mother a Merry Christmas?"

"Henry, you never do that. That's why I stopped inviting you to my Christmas Day parties," she answered back flatly. "And you've apparently _walked _all the way here, because your feet are soaked, and yet you have no coat and hat. Something must have happened."

"Well..." he cleared his throat. "Something did, I suppose."

Her brow furrowed, real concern filling her. She nodded once, then strode out in front of him.

"Come with me," she instructed, and left the parlour. She heard Henry reluctantly follow her to the library, where there was always a healthy fire burning. She swiftly instructed the servants to take Henry's wet jacket, shoes and stockings, and bring a hot water bottle, tea and blankets.

"I can't have you catching influenza," Mrs. Higgins decided as she settled into an armchair. Higgins waited until the servants brought him a blanket, which he carelessly threw around himself before collapsing into a chair opposite her, stretching his feet out toward the fire.

"So what is this about, Henry?" she asked, folding her hands in her lap. He stared into the fire.

"Eliza."

Mrs. Higgins considered him, trying not to show how surprised she was.

"She's been gone for months," she reminded him. "Are you still sleeping on the couch and listening to her recording?"

Henry glared at her. It did not deter her. She just waited.

"No," he finally scoffed. "I stopped doing that almost immediately."

Mrs. Higgins raised an eyebrow at his lie but said nothing.

"She came back," he muttered.

Mrs. Higgins sat up.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean that last night, she banged on my door and I found her lying half dead on my stoop!" He gestured vehemently.

"Good heavens!" Mrs. Higgins exclaimed. "What did you do?"

Henry looked at her, thrown.

"What do you mean, what did I do?"

"Did you bring her in?"

Henry stared at her, going even paler.

"What do you think I did?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know, Henry. That's why I asked," she admitted. A look of pain flashed across his eyes before he turned back to the fire.

"Of course I brought her in," he muttered.

"Oh, good," Mrs. Higgins settled herself back into her chair. "That's a relief." She was trying to tease him, but for some reason her words were cutting into him. She glanced down at her hands. Sometimes, she was a bit more like her son than she would admit to her friends. She deliberately softened her tone.

"So what had happened to her that she should come to you like that?"

Henry shifted uncomfortably.

"Her flower shop went under because her husband spent recklessly, she had no money for rent, her friends would not help her and her husband left her."

"Good gracious," Mrs. Higgins gasped lowly. "She told you all this?"

Henry became even more discomfited.

"No."

Her eyes narrowed.

"How did you find out?"

"I..." He sighed. "I suggested that those things...might have happened."

Mrs. Higgins did not speak for a long moment.

"Suggested?" she said slowly. "Or accused?"

He made an exasperated sound.

"Mother, why do you always expect the worst of me?"

"Because it's usually what people get," she answered back. "Are you still_ that_ angry with her?"

"What's not to be angry about?" he suddenly burst out. "I took her in, kept her for six months, taught her everything I know about grammar, pronunciation, handwriting, dancing, spelling, and etiquette, passed her off as a _princess_ which gained her the admiration and envy of the entire upper and middle classes, and then for no reason at all she tells me she can get along swimmingly without me, that she will never see me again, and that I ought to go back in my shell and stay there."

Mrs. Higgins stifled a wry smile.

"Not _completely _for no reason, Henry."

He looked at her in surprise.

"What do you pretend I did?"

"I'm not pretending," she retorted. "I know you better than anyone. You were rude to her, walked over her, commanded her, drove her like a slave master, and when she finally did all that you asked of her, you did not have one word of compliment to spare for her. And so, by all of that, you merely proved to her that you thought of her as nothing more than a means to an end, an instrument for you to distinguish yourself in your profession. And so she did the only thing she could do: she made herself believe that you meant nothing to her, either."

"That's preposterous!" Henry declared, offended. "That's completely illogical. I did _not _treat her that way, and she was fully aware that I meant her no harm or disrespect."

"Was she?" Mrs. Higgins said critically. "I could have sworn she told me differently."

Henry gaped at her.

"She _told _you this? How dare she come here and insult me behind my--"

"Because you hurt her, Henry," Mrs. Higgins said quietly. "You hurt her badly enough that she was driven from your house in misery. I doubt you knew it, but when you stormed in here and commanded that she come back with you, you ruined your last chance to make amends with her."

Henry said nothing in response--just glowered at the fire stubbornly. Mrs. Higgins sighed, suddenly feeling old.

"I think you're making me realize something, darling," she said quietly. "This is my fault."

He glanced at her.

"What the devil do you mean?"

Mrs. Higgins sat up slightly, gathering her thoughts.

"As I look back on it, your father and I rarely, if ever, were openly affectionate in front of you, or anyone for that matter. And I am an exceptional sort of woman you know."

"Of course you are."

"What I mean is, I am made out of a tougher material than most ladies. I don't require many public compliments or niceties. Your father had no use for them either, so we were a perfect match. I just fear that we were a bad example for you."

"I don't understand that at all," Henry insisted. "I have no qualms with the way you two raised me."

"I am starting to," Mrs. Higgins confessed. "We did not demonstrate enough how a man and woman who care for each other really ought to act. I mean, we did when we were alone--he would compliment me on my choice of dress and jewelry, tell me what a witty hostess I was, and how proud of me he felt. But never in front of you. All that you learned was the way we spoke to each other when we were not alone--and our comments were filled with more frankness and sarcasm than was probably healthy."

"But you always answered back when you believed Father had gone too far," Henry objected. "And he did the same."

Mrs. Higgins raised her eyebrows.

"And so you believed that _you_ ought to just carry on as we always had until Eliza checked you with a verbal blow of her own?"

Henry frowned. Mrs. Higgins shook her head.

"She couldn't possibly do that. She did not feel on equal footing with you."

"Of course not," Henry sat back. "She's an ignorant flower girl who--"

"That's not what I meant," Mrs. Higgins cut him off. "I meant that she admired and respected you too much--cared too much about what you thought of her--_worried _too much about pleasing you to do that. She could not possibly answer back because she had no idea where she stood with you--she was doubtlessly terrified that you would toss her out on the street. She had no notion whether or not you esteemed her highly at all--and that assurance would have been the freedom she needed to be able to defend herself." Mrs. Higgins paused. "And the one time I heard her make an attempt, you knocked her feet out from under her straightaway, further convincing her of your indifference."

Henry stared, stunned. Mrs. Higgins just watched him for a long moment, then took a breath.

"So, though it may be a little late in coming, I am going to begin teaching you now."

"What?" He was startled.

"Stand up," she instructed firmly. Warily, Henry got to his feet, and let the blanket fall back down onto the chair. Stepping forward, Mrs. Higgins slid her arms around her son, laying her head against his chest. She felt his completely inexperienced arms hesitantly wrap around her. She smiled into his shirt.

"I love you, Henry dear," she said quietly. "Merry Christmas." She heard him swallow hard. She went on.

"Now I want to hear you say the same, unless it isn't true."

He took a ragged breath.

"I love you too, Mother," he managed.

Tears unexpectedly sprang to her eyes, and she backed up, taking his face in her hands.

"Do you remember the last time you told me that?" she whispered. "I believe you were ten--and you'd fallen and scraped your knee."

His brow twisted and he said nothing. Mrs. Higgins watched his bright blue eyes, then smiled.

"I'll leave you to get warmed up," she patted his cheek. "I must get back to my guests. When your clothes are dry, you are perfectly welcome to come in and have a glass of punch. But if you must leave, I understand." She winked at him, then headed toward the door. She spoke without turning around. "Regardless, please take your father's coat as you leave."

VVVVVV

"It seems rather lonely for a Christmas Day, doesn't it?"

Eliza lifted her head at the sound of Pickering's voice as he entered the parlour. She smiled faintly.

"Not really. I have this lovely tree for company--and you, of course."

He chuckled as he eased down into his favorite chair with a cup of coffee. Eliza slowly rolled over onto her side, watching as he sipped his drink, then took a breath.

"Did the professor really listen to my recording on the grammophone?"

Pickering glanced up.

"Oh, yes," he answered solemnly. "Constantly."

"Then where's the book?"

Pickering appeared confused.

"Book?"

Eliza sighed.

"The book I'm sure he's writing about his experiences with eradicating the Lisson Grove 'lingo' from a curbside flower girl."

Pickering looked at her a moment, his brow furrowed, then shook his head.

"No, I believe you misunderstand."

She lifted her head again.

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't write a book," Pickering shook his head. "He just couldn't sleep without hearing your voice."

Eliza stared at him.

"Couldn't _sleep?"_

"Not a wink," Pickering took another sip. "While I was here, Mrs. Pearce and I found him...oh, two or three times a week, lying on your couch in the mornings, with your recording playing. He didn't look any better for the sleep he got, though."

Eliza didn't know what to say. All she knew was that her chest had tightened down so hard she could barely breathe, and an anxious, cold feeling was sliding down through her stomach. The Pickering apparently had a thought.

"Oh, and he...ah, kept your ring right over here," he grunted, setting his coffee down and standing up. He paced over to Higgins' desk and opened a small box near the fountain pen. He reached in and plucked out the ring that Higgins had bought for her in Brighton so long ago. Her eyes stung as Pickering came back to her with it, smiling.

"Merry Christmas," he said warmly, and handed it to her. She took it with a hand that trembled slightly and stared down at its simple band and elegant, dark stone. Biting her lip, she slid it onto her right hand ring finger, where it belonged, and rubbed its edges softly.

"Sometimes he would take it out and look at it, then put it back when I came in," Pickering told her. "That's how I knew where it was."

Eliza's lip trembled.

"He missed me?" she whispered.

"Yes, Miss Doolittle," Pickering said deeply. "And I think he fully realized that the day your recording broke from too much use. But by then, it was too late."

Eliza looked at him sharply.

"What do you mean?"

Pickering shrugged sadly.

"You had already been married for a week."

Silenced, Eliza eased back down onto the couch, staring at her ring as it glittered in the afternoon light that came in through the window, fighting against her tears.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

_I hope all of you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. Please let me know if this is the case ;) Thank you again for all your kind reviews._

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

WITHOUT YOU

Eliza had taken luncheon, tea and dinner in the parlour, though she couldn't swallow much. As the darkness of evening gathered, she remained sitting up, leaning on the armrest, quietly sipping tea.

"Can I get you anything, Miss Doolittle?"

Eliza turned her head and glanced behind her. Mrs. Pearce stood waiting.

"No thank you," she smiled. Mrs. Pearce nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Could you...this will sound silly..."

"Whatever you want, Miss Doolittle."

"Could you find one of my lesson recordings and put it on?"

"I'm afraid the longest one is broken."

Eliza's brow furrowed.

"Oh, dear. Isn't there another?"

Mrs. Pearce searched through the shelves and finally pulled something out. She blew the dust off of it.

"Luckily this one was hidden behind a book, or it would have been broken as well," Mrs. Pearce muttered. "It is nearly five minutes long, labeled 'Cup of Tea.'"

"Oh, dear," Eliza said again, only wryly. "Yes, put that one in, please."

Mrs. Pearce did as requested, then left the room. In a moment, the crackling record gave voice, in Professor Higgins' commanding tone.

_"Say your alphabet."_

_"I know me alphabet," _she heard herself insist indignantly. _"Do you think I know nothing? I don't need to be taught like a child."_

_"Say your alphabet!" _Higgins' voice thundered so loudly it distorted the speaker. Eliza winced.

_"Say it Miss Doolittle," _Colonel Pickering advised. _"You will understand presently. Do what he tells you; let him teach you in his own way."_

_"Oh, well if you put it like that," _Eliza heard herself say calmly. _"Ahyee, buyee, cuyee, duyee--"_

Higgins made a roar like a wounded lion, again distorting the recording.

_"Stop! Listen to this, Pickering. This is what we pay for as elementary education. This unfortunate animal has been locked up for nine years in school at our expense to teach her to speak and read the language of Shakespeare and Milton. And the result is Ahyee, buyee, cuyee, duyee. Say A, B, C, D." _

_"But I'm sayin' it," _her recorded voice said tearfully. _"Ahyee, buyee, cuyee--"_

_"Stop! Say a cup of tea."_

_"A capputu-ee."_

_"Put your tongue forward until it squeezes against the top of your lower teeth. Now say cup."_

_"C-c-c--I can't. C-Cup."_

_"Good! Splendid, Miss Doolittle!" _Pickering praised.

_"By Jupiter she's done it at the first shot. Pickering: we shall make a duchess of her!"_

Even now, just hearing his recorded voice say that made Eliza bite her lip and lower her head to hide her blush. But his recording went on, just as she knew it would.

_"Now, do you think you could possibly say tea?"_

There came a small click. Eliza went stiff, staring straight ahead. Then a real, living voice with more depth and quietness than the recording resounded softly through the room.

"Not _tuyee, _mind: if you ever say buyee, cuyee, duyee again you shall be dragged 'round the room three times by the hair of your head."

Eliza's heart thundered and her face flushed with embarrassment, but she managed to bite down on her emotion and merely arch an eyebrow.

"That particular threat worked fairly well," she said flatly. She glanced behind her. Professor Higgins was studying the grammophone as if he had never seen it before. He was wearing a long black coat, but no hat, and his feet and hems of his trousers were soaked. Eliza turned back around, trying to appear uncaring.

"Where did you go?"

"My mother's," he grunted, apparently breaking out of his reverie enough to throw his coat on his chair.

"You walked?" Eliza said skeptically.

"Obviously," he retorted, flopping down on the far opposite end of the couch and prying off his shoes.

"That is a long way," Eliza commented.

"I don't need a nursemaid," he snapped. Eliza looked sharply away from him, her jaw tightening. If she had not been so weak she would have gotten up and left the room that instant. He groaned, and her gaze was reluctantly drawn back to him when he leaned over, braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face.

"Never mind me, Eliza--I haven't had much sleep lately."

"So you said," she answered back bitterly. "If I'd known I was going to be such an inconvenience I would have just stayed on the corner and froze with the match girl to save you the trouble."

Slowly, he dropped his hands, then turned his head and looked at her sideways.

"Why were you on the corner with the match girl, Eliza?" he asked softly.

"I told you," she bit out.

"No, you didn't," he sighed, rubbing his face again. "I just happen to be excellent at guessing."

Eliza's eyes narrowed at the fireplace.

"Am I supposed to belive that you care?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't bother to ask the question," he countered simply. Eliza glanced down. _That _was true. She swallowed, waiting for him to prod her. But for once, he surprised her. He just waited. So, bravely, Eliza took a breath.

"After Freddy and I were married, we lived in his mother's house for a month. We borrowed money to start a flower shop, but Freddy's mother forbade him to ever be seen there, except posing as a customer. So I ran it. I had to educate myself about balance sheets and tables and sums, besides acquainting myself with the ordering system and payment of employees."

She sensed Higgins straighten slightly, and felt a prick of satisfaction--she had impressed him a little. She went on.

"Also, in the evenings, I would read as much as I could. Mrs. Eynsford-Hill had a large library that had been in the family for generations, and so I just started on one side and worked my way around to the other."

Higgins clearly wanted to make some sort of exclamation but apparently words were not coming. However, Eliza's satisfaction faded as her thoughts drifted to the next part of the story.

"We made a visit to Freddy's aunt, Mrs. Eynsford, a widow. Freddy took me shopping for the occasion, and bought me a very expensive dress and hat. It worried me."

Higgins shifted, watching her carefully.

"It worries _me,_" he admitted. She nodded slightly.

"And then, when we arrived there, he introduced me as his wife, the lady Doolittle of Hartfordshire."

"What?"

Eliza took a deep breath.

"It was then that I found out that Freddy was to inherit from this woman--that she was withholding all funds from him until her death, and that she would probably withdraw them entirely if he made an 'imprudent' marriage."

"Oh, dear," Higgins muttered. Eliza bit her lip.

"Yes. I was forced to concentrate on all of your lessons with all my might for almost another month--Mrs. Eynsford was very high-class. She apparently descended a degree or two when she married, and her sister, Mrs. Eynsford-Hill, descended even lower--and both, it seems, suffered for it. They wanted to make certain that didn't happen to Freddy."

Higgins didn't look at her, apparently pondering, his brow creased. Eliza went on.

"We returned home, and I supposed I had passed the ultimate test. I felt very much as I did that night of the Embassy Ball, when everyone thought I was a princess," Eliza hesitantly threw him a small smile. He glanced at her and swallowed.

"Rightly so," he admitted quietly. After meeting his eyes, Eliza had to gather herself before speaking again.

"Two weeks later, though, Freddy received a letter. It was from Mrs. Eynsford. She declared him to be a deceitful wretch and that she knew full well that he had married a flower girl from Covent Garden."

"How the blazes would she know that?" Higgins was outraged. "When you're thinking about it, there's no trace of your old dialect--I made certain of that!"

"_I'm_ certain it was one of the servants," Eliza sighed. "I spent quite a lot of time by myself in that great house, and I resorted to talking to myself sometimes to fill the silence. And when I''m talking to myself," she shrugged. "Why not talk the way I talked for most of my life--the way my parents and grandparents talked?"

"And someone heard you?" he surmised darkly.

Eliza nodded.

"Mrs. Eynsford didn't give many details--she just said she did an investigation of her own, in an effort to disprove such a heinous rumor," Eliza rolled her eyes. "And rich women have contacts all through society. I know she found out that I was your experiment. We did not exactly take great pains to keep it a secret."

Higgins frowned fiercely.

"So what did the baggage do?"

"Who? Mrs. Eynsford?"

"Of course Mrs. Eynsford!"

Eliza tamped down the glow that that ignited in her heart, and kept on.

"As you would expect, Freddy was irrevocably disinherited. I have no idea who she plans to give the money to--I'm not aware of any younger relatives. Freddy was angry, so he moved us out of his mother's house and into a flat over the flower shop."

"Idiot," Higgins condemned. Eliza's brow furrowed.

"His mother had insulted me. He said he wouldn't force me to live with her."

"And thus deprived you of a warm, comfortable home and replaced it with a drafty flat," Higgins scoffed. "That's genius."

Eliza sighed again.

"And as it turned out, he was not home very often. He told me he was searching for work, and then that he had found work and was steadily making money--but I later found out that he was almost living with his mother again. About a month ago, the owner of the building came to me and demanded five months of back rent. Freddy had told me that he had been paying it. Of course, I did not have the money for five months--and then, when I went to the bank, I found that Freddy had been steadily withdrawing from the money I made from the flower shop. A little more digging led me to a gambling ring."

"Blackguard," Higgins said indignantly. Eliza's voice faded.

"So I moved out, having to sell everything in the house and the shop to pay part of the rent. I even sold my wedding ring." She chuckled mirthlessly. "And as it happens, it wasn't even a real diamond. But it managed to pay off the rest of the rent so I didn't go to prison."

Higgins sank back into the couch, his distant eyes troubled. Eliza ran a hand across her forehead.

"Then, about a week or so later, I found that Freddy had neatly annulled our marriage, freeing him of any ties to me--and then by the end of the month he was married again, to an heiress that had Mrs. Eynsford's full approval. She was from--"

"New York?"

Eliza shook her head.

"Paris, actually."

"Even worse."

"Yes."

Eliza fell silent, and all at once tears brimmed up in her eyes. She swiped desperately at her face, hating to cry in front of him.

"It was a bloody shame, too," Her voice hitched angrily. "I...really enjoyed working in the flower shop, and reading the books in Mrs. Eynsford-Hill's library...and I enjoyed Freddy's company. He was gentle and listened when I wanted to talk with him, and treated me like a lady."

"No, he didn't," Higgins snapped. "He's a worthless excuse for a man, and I hope he regrets you till the day he dies."

"'But does it follow that if he had chosen me he would have been content?'" Eliza quoted faintly, shakily. "'He would have had a wife he loved but no money, and may have soon begun to rank the demands of his pocketbook far above the demands of his heart.'" She took a trembling breath. "'If his present regrets are half as painful as mine he will suffer enough.'"

Higgins stared at her in open wonder.

"Jane Austen?" he surmised. She smiled wanly at him.

"I told you I read a bit."

"Hang it all, Eliza," Higgins finally burst out in exasperation. "I have no patience for that moron--not half as much as you seem to have. And I would never grace him with literary remonstrations. Can't you see what he's done to you? He's single-handedly taken you down from the pedestal where I made you to belong, and destroyed you in the face of society. He has degraded you, insulted you, and completely humiliated you."

"He did more than that, sir," she admitted softly, struggling to keep her expression clear. She felt him run his eyes over her.

"Yes, I can see that." He paused, and a new tone entered his voice. "By Jove, he _hurt _you, didn't he?"

Eliza smiled weakly.

"No worse than I have been before--but yes."

That stopped him.

"What does that mean?" he asked sharply. Eliza swallowed, but she could not find the strength to do more than look at him. His eyes widened.

"Oh, good lord, Eliza," he exclaimed. "Surely you know that it was never_ my_ intention to degrade or demoralize you at all! I may have spoken harshly once in a while, but I thought it was perfectly clear that there was never any real malice behind my words!" He gestured helplessly. "Everything I did, I did because I was breaking my head to pull the excellence and grace I saw hiding beneath your skin out onto the surface for the entire world to see!" He scooted toward her, speaking earnestly, draping his arm across the back of the couch. "I know my manners lapsed terribly around you, and I was brutally honest and indelicate, and I drove you like a slave. But that was only because you were so important! I know I called you a guttersnipe and a baggage and an ungrateful wretch," His voice quieted somewhat. "But I would never in my wildest dreams truly hope that you would be treated this way. When I said I'd made you a consort for a king, I meant it. You aren't merely one of my projects--you are a lady, and you deserve infinitely better."

Eliza's vision blurred, she blinked, and two hot tears tumbled down her face.

"Really?" she said doubtfully, not entirely believing him. He saw it.

"Eliza," he said, his voice intense. "You matter to me immensely!"

She looked down. He moaned, swearing and covering his face in his hands once more.

"My mother was right."

"Right?"

He let out a sharp sigh and dropped his hands.

"I have always been such an attentive learner, and the two people I admire most on this earth are my mother and father," he tried to explain. "So naturally I mimicked them to the letter, believing they were wiser and wittier than anyone else, and that the rest of society was made up of fools who couldn't completely understand them." He unconsciously turned a bit toward her. "They sometimes insulted each other, but when they did it was banter, not meant to be hurtful or condescending. They never were affectionate...physically...in front of me." He shifted uncomfortably. "Of course, I noticed other men and women holding hands and talking with more syrup dripping from their voices than I could stand. My father and mother didn't have the patience for such things, so I assumed it must be a lot of tom-foolery." He sighed heavily. "Apparently I was wrong. As my mother so bluntly and effectively put it, I have failed to learn anything at all about the proper way I ought to act toward a woman I care about," His eyes flickered up to Eliza's just for an instant. "And the thought that I am completely inadequate and cannot function within the perimeters of such a vital piece of human life humiliates me more than anything I have ever experienced." He did not look at her, but down at the rug. "I have to learn these things, Eliza. And I have no doubt I shall make a bumbling idiot of myself--but if it's possible to learn the steps to this dance even this late--"

Her head lowered, Eliza leaned toward him, then lifted her face and pressed her lips against his, silencing him. For a moment, she held him there, breathless and frozen, then withdrew. Though still stunned, his mouth broke from hers with reluctance. His eyes fluttered open and he stared at her.

"I believe there are a few prerequisites to...that one," he stated, flushed. Eliza met his gaze steadily.

"I have just entered you into a pass/fail course," she answered, her mouth quirking in a half smile. "Since you failed all your prerequisites."

He looked at her for a long time, then suddenly reached forward, sild both hands up to cradle her face, and uttered words she was almost certain he had never spoken before.

"Eliza," he said with earnest difficulty. "I am sorry."

Eliza smiled, allowing real tenderness to show in that expression for the first time. Slowly, she raised her hand and rested it against his cheek, tracing his eyebrow with her thumb.

"I am sorry, too."

His brow tightened.

"Miss Doolittle," he furtively searched her eyes. "Could you possibly find it within yourself to be a merciful, forgiving and patient tutor--a teacher completely and totally unlike your own--"

She chuckled.

"--and allow me just one half of a seventh or eighth chance?"

Eliza studied the eyes of the man before her; the man she loved--the man she had truthfully always loved just the way he was--and smiled.

"Don't you fret, 'enry 'iggins," she murmured. "I 'ave ev'ry confidence in you."

Instead of correcting her, or raising an eyebrow at her tease, he paused just an instant, then leaned forward and closed his lips around hers, kissing her back.

FIN


End file.
